


Star War

by fish-with-a-pencil (DeadFeesh24)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Force-Sensitive Reader, Multi, No Romance, Post TFA, Reader-Insert, or very little romance rather, reader uses they/them pronouns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-08-30 09:57:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8528701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadFeesh24/pseuds/fish-with-a-pencil
Summary: In which a cranky reader steals a pod, some money, and everyone's heart.You're a force sensitive jackass with ties to both the light and dark sides, and you're not too keen on taking up the mantle of hero or villain.  However, burning all your bridges only gets you so far, and the Force doesn't like being ignored.  It's time for you to step up and do your part to assure galactic balance, even if you have to complain every step of the way.





	1. Introduction: The Council of Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally self insert fic, but I decided that everyone should share in the fun… Note, I like meek reader inserts as much as the next person, but just to switch things up, reader-chan here is a snarly little fucker. Here are some notes for what means what:  
> Y/N: Your full name (or if you’re like me, your oc’s name)  
> F/N: Your first name  
> L/N: Your last name  
> FR/N: Your friend’s full name (note, this friend was once your lover so if you were thinking of using a real person just be aware)  
> FR/FN: Friend’s first name  
> FR/LN: Friend’s last name  
> These characters aren’t used all in this first chapter, but I thought that it’d be easier to just get it all over with now.  
> Reader is 25 and dfab, but uses they/them pronouns. More info on them in the ending notes.

The antechamber, as always, is ridiculously, preposterously ostentatious.

The massive dome above you is made entirely of stained glass, but so high up (and filthy to boot) that only grey half-light filters down onto the dais.  Five thrones, arranged in a half circle, sit in front of you, raised on the dais, and behind each of them hangs an enormous tapestry, each in a single representative color:

On the far left, crimson, for Amakuza.

On the far right, cerulean for Phimesis.

Flanking the center on the left and right were earthy green and lavender, for Lio and Thamsa.

And for Ophitrion in the dead center, there was a null grey banner, reaching all the way to the top of the cathedral.

The colors meant things, of course, but when you first heard the five’s explanations, you were young and terrified at the masked giants peering down at you, and unable to remember a thing.  The council didn’t care for repeating themselves, and at this point, you were no longer inclined to care.  

It’s only your mind trying to sort out messages from the Force, your older cousin had once told you as a child, your psyche’s way of protecting you from the wild yonder of uncontrollable space magic.

Reasonable enough.

Less reasonable was the council taking their merry fucking time to appear, but you use the reprieve to inspect the clothes you wear every time you’re called here.  

It’s nothing like what you wore in reality, no, you’re too spartan to even think of wearing robes.  Like something out of an old legend, the null grey robes are exquisitely soft, draped over your body like a gown.  A black belt cinches your waist, embroidered with gold lettering in a long dead tongue you can’t read.  The gold accents continue on the hems of your billowing sleeves and in your hair.  It’s always too much; when you wake up in your old leather duster with messy hair plastered to your forehead, your breath gets easier.

Without a sound, the Council of Five fades into existence.  You take knee in greeting, and stay put, not even looking at them.  Not that it mattered, they  _ are _ just figments of your imagination after all, but it always felt right to do so.

The council members all look roughly the same in form, with varying masks.  Ophitrion is the only one who looks different, noticeably taller and thinner.  He’s nearly skeletal, even though you don’t remember him being that thin as a child. 

The rest of the council are of varying builds; Amakuza is broad and a little squat, in contrast to Phimesis’ thin and willowy frame; Lio is round and small while Thamsa is all angles.  They all feel a little insubstantial if you look at them from certain angles, Ophitrion included.  Like a bad holo-recording.

_ ‘As always, we are weary of your rebellious wanderlust, F/N,’ _  Thamsa starts.

_ ‘I’d like think we’ve been quite patient with your adventures,’  _ adds Phimesis.

_ ‘And yet,’ _ Lio says,  _ ‘you continue to resist us so you can gallivant across the quadrant...  We do not wish to stifle you, F/N.’ _

“ _ And yet _ ,” you reply, spitting back Lio’s words, “you insist on staying here, in my head.  If you didn’t want to stifle me, you could always fuck off and find someone else to order around.  I know I’m not the only one who can use both the light and dark sides.”

Amakuza finally speaks up.   _ ‘The other one has been claimed by someone else, someone dark. His current position is tenuous, however...’   _ He’s usually the first to bluster at you with speeches of bravery and conquest, but something holds him back.

_ ‘Who stakes their claim on the boy is none of our concern to begin with, F/N.  We chose you for a reason.’   _ Ever the sweet one, Lio is.

“A reason given in poems and half-riddles, no doubt.” You stare up at the council, barely hiding the contempt on your face. “ Listen, I get it, you’re in my head because my delicate brain can’t always handle the onslaught of a full vision, I get it.  You can’t leave because I created you.  But please, can you let me get drunk in peace?”

The council sighs in unearthly unison.

Ophitrion, larger than all the rest, peers down at you.  His mask is expressionless as ever, but if you could see his face (if he even  _ had  _ a face), you somehow knew there’d be disappointment written all over it.

He speaks in a rasp that shakes your bones.  _  ‘For years we’ve been trying to give you a fair say in this; to give your agency a fighting chance.  Soon, you’ll no longer have a say at all.  Something is coming, and it won’t think twice about sweeping you away in its current.  For the sake of your freedom, and for the freedom of all, listen to us.’ _

You feel your temper rise, hot and bitter in the back of your throat. “My freedom,” you snarl, “you drag me here and boss me around and then have the audacity to tell me my freedom’s on the line?”

_ ‘You cannot fathom what comes next, child.’   _ Ophitrion is leaning down now, his whole head nearly dwarfing you.  At one point, his proximity would’ve scared you. 

But you’re angry, and more importantly, tired of this cryptic nonsense.

“Then kriffing tell me!  Be specific for once in my damn life!  You act like you’re so infinitely wise, and yet you can never tell me how to avoid this oh-so-terrible thing you all keep blathering about!  God, you piss me off...”

_ ‘You cannot avoid what’s coming, even if you were to run.  The fastest ship in existence wouldn’t be able to outrun the First Order.’ _

“The First Order?  They’re not even close to here!”  You were currently in some far off corner of the Outer Rim, in between jobs.

_ ‘Rest assured, they will find you.  Or, you will find them.  It’s still your choice, for now.’ _

You stare at Ophitrion’s featureless mask for a while, still fuming.  Your anger ties your tongue however, and you are never keen on screaming incoherently and making a fool of yourself.

_ ‘As always, we have information for you.  We’re unable to buffer it effectively, so brace yourself.  And remember, child: the Force demands balance.’ _

A vision.  If you were lucky, the council would merely tell you the pertinent information.  When it was too obscure or dense, they’d just let it through.  They do always have the courtesy to warn you first, though.  You sit down and take a grounding breath.  Then, it hits you.

_ Wherever you are, it’s dark, and cold enough to have your favorite scarf wrapped around your mouth and nose.  Your bomber jacket isn’t nearly warm enough as you pick your way up a rocky cliff.  In the distance, you hear something; either a bomb or thunder, but it’s too far away for you to tell the difference.  Your bones ache something fierce, like you fought through a hundred men to get here. _

_ “Are you sure it was this way?” Someone, a man, growls.  It’s a voice you’ve never heard before, yet still familiar. _

_ You look back and there’s a man in black, roughly your age and a head taller looking back at you, jaw clenched in barely contained frustration.  He’s reaching for something on his belt— _

_ The scene changes.  A girl with brown hair tied back from her face smiles gently, and laughs.  Something warm and fond blooms in your chest. _

_ In less than a moment, the scene changes again, leaving you dizzy. _

_ You can’t see, and your shoulder throbs with incessant pain.  Everything seems far away; muffled.  There’s conversation, but you can’t quite make it out.  Even the Force seems sluggish to respond; you can’t reach out to the minds around you. _

_ You move to rub your aching shoulder, but your hands are restrained.  You struggle more, fighting to shake off the haziness in your mind and to get free.  The haziness ebbs slightly, but the restraints don’t give. _

_ “They’re waking up.  Take it off.”  Whatever was blocking your vision is ripped away.  Your eyes barely focus on what looms in front of you: a man with a cruel, narrow face.  He sneers at you, “so this is the ‘wild animal’ I’ve been hearing about…” _

_ Impassive, in the corner, is another man; more shadow than person, swathed in black robes.  Despite the mask, you’re sure he’s the same man from earlier in your vision.  You can feel him pressing against your mind, but your wavering shields remain steady for the moment.  He feels hesitant. _

_ “It wasn’t so hard to cage you…” _

_ You spit at him, landing a bloody splotch on his right cheek.  “You won’t keep me here for long.  Nothing can.” _

_ “We’ll see…” _

_ There’s excruciating pain as the man in black rips through the last of your defenses, his hesitation gone. _

Then, you wake.

Coming back up from a vision is never easy for you.  It’s always sudden, and leaves your ears ringing with the echoes of what you had heard and seen, and this time, there’s a lingering feeling of taintedness, like someone’s still pawing through your memories.

Now you  _ really _ need a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be clear, the council of five really is a mental construct that helps the reader interpret the will of the Force. I dunno I have a thing for giant masked beings, and so I put them in for funsies. If you think this will be anything except ridiculously indulgent, you are mistaken. That being said, I really do hope you enjoy it. :)
> 
> For reference, here are what the banner colors/council members represent, left to right:
> 
> Red/Amakuza: War, bravery, loyalty  
> Green/Lio: Life, healing, initiative  
> Grey/Ophitrion: The Force; specifically the balance between light and dark, hence grey  
> Lavender/Thamsa: Death, patience, change  
> Blue/Phimesis: Peace, communication, honesty
> 
> I don’t intend to use them too much in this story, but feel free to use a plugin to change the names if you like. If I do stuff about Reader’s past, you’ll probably see a lot more of them.
> 
> Also, since this originally was based off of a oc fic I was working on, Reader has quite a bit more backstory than is standard. I hope you don’t mind. :)


	2. A Chance Meeting (Alternatively: The Force is Ruining Your Life One Bar at a Time)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite your best intentions to dodge fate at all costs, you run into one of the men you saw in your vision. It goes just as well as you expect, which is to say, terribly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this is all rampant escapism at this point like wow the entire world is going downhill
> 
> I have removed the phrase "it can't get any worse" from my vocabulary, which at the very least, has prevented 2016 (and probably 2017) from proving me wrong anymore.
> 
> Just a reminder, this is unbeta’d and barely revised. I tend to let things sit for too long, so I’m using this as an exercise in actually getting stuff down on paper and posting somewhat consistently.

The outpost that you’ve found yourself in isn’t really all that bad.  Sure, it’s filthy, and the room above yours never stopped making strange noises, but hey, you’ve seen (and, heard) worse.  In a few days you’d probably drift on through, hitch a ride on a freighter in exchange for work, or something.

And if what the council said is true—and who are you kidding, it always is—then maybe it would be best to stay in the Outer Rim for a while and wait out whatever shitstorm the First Order is cooking up.  Get some rest before the Force decides to ruin your life again.  Maybe swallow down unhealthy amounts of cheap liquor, maybe get in a fist fight—just a standard evening of R&R, as far as you’re concerned.

The hostel bed creaks wearily as you roll out of it, and a familiar ache spreads across your back as you stand.  Your life has been filled with fitful sleep like this, and you’re no stranger to waking up stiff.

Something’s up with the Force, aside from that disaster of a vision.  Like another person stepping on a trampoline, you feel a mutual pull and, distantly, you know they feel you too.

Before you shrug on your jacket, you walk across the hall to the communal bathroom to splash water across your face.  In the cracked mirror, your haggard face stares back, eyes tinged with red around the edges.  Another few splashes of cold water, and you’re almost feeling like yourself.

You rub your face dry with the bottom of your undershirt.  As much as you’d like to, you can’t avoid looking at the scar that bisects your chest; a gnarled slash from your left shoulder, down your sternum to your bottom right ribs.  If you were to stretch the skin out in places, you might find bits of broken glass that escaped your tweezers, still trapped there.  Not that it mattered much; girls thought it made you look tough, which was nice.

You spare one last glance in the mirror while you tie up your hair, then return to your room to get dressed.

By the time you’re out the door, the binary suns have already set.  The last rays of light come up from below the horizon, spreading meager heat onto the desolate outpost.  You nestle yourself further into your jacket and scarf, drawing comfort from the familiarity like a child.  Despite the slight chill, you leave your duster open so it flaps in the stiff breeze; it makes you look more intimidating.

In your defense, no one is completely immune to theatrics.  If you happen to like men twice your size regarding you with fear in their eyes, then that’s just the way it is.

For the most part, you’re the only one outside; there’s no trades going on, and the only noise around spills from the saloon at the end of the street.  Even if the Force weren’t tugging you there, the inviting call of booze and rowdy music draws you, and you make your way across the outpost, still thinking about your vision.

If that mystery man were to paw through your memories, you wonder, how much of it would be scenes of dimly lit bars and taverns, making shady deals or offering your services as a hired blaster?

Would the mystery man be shocked?

It’s always hard to break cleanly away from a vision.  Instead, you turn over all the sharp edges of it in your mind, over and over until they’re dull, and you’re cut all over.  Until that happens however, you can’t really let go.

Ignoring the tug from the Force, you enter the bar.  The pull is much stronger now, but you ignore it.  Fate or not, you’re going to get your kriffing drink. 

You settle yourself in a secluded corner of the bar, away from the band and suitably defensible from idiots, and order yourself a whiskey, still replaying the last portion of your vision.

_ ‘Wasn’t too hard to cage you…’ _

You had no idea who the red haired man from your vision was, but thinking about him made you feel sick.  The idea that anyone would ever capture you was bad enough on its own, but something about him felt so incredibly off, even with you drugged half to death, you could sense something not quite right in him.

And the other man, well, you could make an educated guess on who he was.  With the council insisting that the First Order was out to get you, then it was more likely than not that he was one of their Force sensitive lapdogs, the knights-of-something-or-another.

Even deep in thought, you immediately recognize the pressure between your temples as someone trying to get past your shields into your head.  However, due to rampant paranoia, your mental shields are quite tough, and you feel much more annoyed than threatened.

_ Hey asshole,  _ you respond,  _ don’t think I can’t feel you doing that. _

The pressure increases, but it isn’t hard to push back, seeking out who the hell decided to ruin your night out.  They’re in the dark corner opposite yours, so you grab your drink, throw caution to the wind, and march on over, completely prepared to give them a stern talking to—and hey, it’s mystery man!

Well, fuck.   _ You win this round, council, _ you think to yourself.  You can almost feel a smug response from the Force itself, but that’s probably just your imagination.

Mystery man looks just as shocked as you feel; his dark eyes are wide as he stares at you, frozen in place.  Holding his gaze, you sit down and swallow down the last two thirds of your whiskey.  You don’t bother getting a real read off him; his face says it all.

For a lackey of the First Order, he doesn’t seem very intimidating.  Despite the scar on his face (still healing, you note), he looks rather young, all fluffy hair and a pouty face.  He’s certainly much bigger than you, even while sitting down, so that counts for something, you guess.

He’s still staring as you wave down the waitress again for another drink.

“Don’t looked so shocked,” you snap, “you weren’t subtle at all.”

His opens, but he just closes it without saying anything.

“Come now, you were so curious earlier; you don’t have anything to ask me?  You know, like a normal person?”

Before he can respond, the waitress arrives.  “What can I get you two?”

“Another whiskey for me, and,” you pause for thought, “A shirley temple for junior over here.”

You never claimed to be very nice.  And needling at the stuffed up manchild across from you, well, that was an opportunity you couldn’t pass up.

He’s glaring at you now, something that was probably terrifying to someone with a reliable fear response, grinding his teeth together.  If you had to guess, this usually got him places in the past, seeing he was a knight-of-something-grim.  Most likely, people obeyed him with fear in their eyes.  

But you’re you, so you just grin at him, hoping to make at least a small blow to his pride.

“Who are you,” he asks, still gritting his teeth. He’s resisting the urge to reach at you with the Force, you note.  For whatever reason, he doesn’t want to cause a scene.

“F/N.”

“What, no last name?”

The waitress returns before you can answer, sliding another watery glass towards you.  At this point, mystery boy’s shirley temple sounds a little more appealing.  You still take a sip before continuing on.  “Does it matter?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Well, what about you?  It’s not every day you see a Force Sensitive in the far fuck-off corners of the galaxy,” you drawl.

“And yet  _ you’re _ here…”  He really does look like a pouty child, especially when he crosses his arms like that.  How anyone was ever frightened of him is beyond your knowledge.

You take another sip.  “Ah, but your logic is flawed; you’re assuming I’m like you.  You don’t belong here, but me on the other hand… Sleazy cantinas are my natural habitat.  So, that brings us back to my question:  _ why are you here? _ ”  

You already know the more abstract reason: the Force.  For whatever reason, you’re finally being pulled into the fray, and this was the way it had to go down.  In a filthy bar on an outpost in the middle of nowhere.  

How fitting.

Knowing this, you’re hungry for the more concrete reasons.  You don’t want to show your hand, that you know who he is (sort of), but you need to know how one of the First Order’s dogs ends up so far away from their seat of power.

He’s still silent and you’re searching his face for answers when you feel his mind press against yours again.

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you manners,” you ask cooly.  It barely takes any effort to fend him off, but it’s ruining your buzz (as much as it could be with booze like this; it’s like you’re drinking piss), and you throw a couple credit chips on the table and storm out.

He tries to follow, but you shove him back in his seat with the Force and keep him there until you get to the door.

_ If you know what’s good for you, kid, you’ll leave me alone. _

If only the Force would do the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this took a lot longer than I thought because my dialogue is damn awful… I had most of this done for a few weeks I think before I finally decided to bite it and post lol
> 
> Next chapter will feature the reader’s friend, some backstory and, hopefully, a fistfight.


End file.
